


Brothers in Arms

by asinfreedom



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 12:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3529703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asinfreedom/pseuds/asinfreedom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the weeks after getting home, Hawkeye struggles to cope with the memories of war. His father quickly realises he can't help his son alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Home is the Lowlands

**Author's Note:**

> The title and chapter titles come from the song that inspired this fic, Brothers in Arms by Dire Straits. I recommend you have a listen, it's eerily MASH-like, particularly the first verse. Every major character from the show will be at least mentioned at some point throughout the fic, even though they don't all appear.

As the morning light slid through the edges of the closed curtains, Hawkeye groaned. He couldn't have been asleep more than an hour or two, and even with closed eyes the sun burned. Slowly he moved an arm up to cover his face, leaving his head lolled back against the arm of the couch. His limbs were heavy with exhaustion and his head ached, but he knew he had to get himself moving. Opening one eye a fraction he found the clock on the wall. It was early, but not as early as he would have liked. He had 15 minutes until his father would be up and in the kitchen, whistling as he made his morning coffee.

With an ease that came from practice Hawkeye barely opened his eyes as he pushed himself up from the couch, collecting the bottle and glass from the table on his way to the kitchen. He left the glass on the bench as he passed through and he stuck his hand out in front of him to find the door to the outside. As it reached the cold metal handle he closed his eyes tighter, preparing himself for the intensity of the world outside. At least he was wearing a t-shirt with his shorts this time.

"Hawkeye." His father's voice from the door behind him stopped Hawkeye in his tracks. His head and his stomach dropped simultaneously. This was never something he wanted his father to see. He'd known Daniel would eventually find out, but he'd never wanted him to actually  _see._

"Did an elephant steal your pyjamas again?"

He tried not to look too relieved as he turned around to face the older man, screwing his face into some semblance of a smile. "How he got into them I'll never know."

Daniel smiled back at his son, though the concern in his eyes was still clear. He moved about the kitchen in his normal morning routine, seemingly content not to comment on the empty bottle of gin still in Hawkeye's hand. "There's an empty room at the surgery now you know," he began, his back to Hawkeye as he filled two mugs with coffee. "Looks like we might need to extend the waiting room."

Hawkeye left the bottle on the bench, trading it for the coffee his father was now holding out to him. They took their seats at the small kitchen table, the same as they had done a thousand mornings before. "Dad…" He fixed his eyes on the steam rising in front of him.

"It's time to get yourself back in the game, Hawk. Mrs Trill'd be delighted to see you, you know."

He wrapped his hands tightly around the mug, grateful for an anchor to stop the shaking. "She'd have to be 104 by now, how does she even remember who I am?" Hawkeye asked with a laugh as he tried to remember the last time he'd seen the old woman.

"After what you did to her flower garden how could she forget?" Daniel's laugh was low and soft, as reasonable and measured as everything in his simple life. Finishing his drink with a long swallow, he pushed himself up from the table with a small groan, he was getting old. "Get yourself a couple hours sleep. Mrs Trill has a daily appointment at one."

"What does she have?" Hawkeye asked, a note of sadness in his voice. She was a sweet woman, he didn't want to see her in pain.

Daniel smiled at the question, calling back to his son as he left the room, "Nothing. She'd have to be the healthiest woman in the whole cove!"

* * *

Hawkeye spent the rest of the morning in the dark, lying on his neatly made bed, staring up into nothing. Trapper's voice echoed in his mind,  _close your bulbs, and it all goes away_. Maybe Trap was right. He took a deep breath, inwardly mocking the gesture even as he did it. Closing his eyes wasn't hard, he didn't need to prepare for it. Without another thought he slammed them shut, trying not to notice that his breaths were coming faster as he did. He lay completely still, straining to hear through the static of the silence, feeling for the soft sheets beneath his bare legs.

Minutes passed and nothing changed, in the infinity of the darkness nothing grew. He realised then that he'd been holding his breath, holding all of his muscles tight, who knows for how long. With a long sigh he relaxed, adjusting his position on the bed to a more comfortable one. Sleep was already tugging at his thoughts, and with every second it became easier for him to keep his mind blank, until all he was left with were those words:  _close your bulbs, and it all goes away_...

Until the phone rang.

He shot up in the bed and looked wildly around him, his heart pounding against his chest as he struggled for breath. In an instant the static silence of the room had been replaced with a chaos of sound, the stillness with action. Chopper blades whirred over his head as nurses and corpsmen ran between litters, calling wildly for more blood, for free hands. Pierce looked down at the man he was kneeling over, not even blinking at the sight of the shredded chest in front of him. He opened his mouth to call for help, this man needed to go first, he needed to go before first.

But before he had the chance to speak, a single gunshot rang out across the compound. He fell forward over the soldier without a second thought, in a vain attempt to protect the already dying man. "Get the wounded under cover! Now!" He shouted, straining to be heard above the panic.

The bullets were coming faster now, bouncing off the walls of the hospital, landing in the dirt at people's feet. Then someone was calling his name, and he looked up to see BJ standing in the pre-op doorway. "Get inside!" His voice was frantic, every breath was a fight for air.

"Benji." That wasn't BJ.

Daniel Pierce had arrived home just in time to hear the phone stop ringing. His son's behaviour over the last weeks had him worried, and when he hadn't come into the surgery that afternoon Daniel had organised to leave work early. It was clear they needed to spend some time together, try to work something out. Throwing his keys onto the table in the hall, he swung the door shut behind him. The sound was met with wild yelling, and in a second the doctor had dropped his bag and was racing up the stairs to find his son.

He could see Hawkeye through the open door even before he reached it. He was kneeling on top of the bed, frightened eyes flitting around the room as though he were somewhere else entirely. "Hawkeye!" Daniel called out, attempting to bring him back to the present, "Hawkeye!"

The younger man's eyes flew up to find him standing in the doorway, but they still weren't seeing. "Get inside!"

In two swift steps Daniel was across the room and by his son's side. "Benji" he said softly.

Hawkeye blinked, panic still written all over his face, and turned to look up at his father. His father called him Hawkeye. His friends called him Hawkeye. The whole town called him Hawkeye. It had been more than 20 years since he'd heard the name Benji. Then his father's arm wrapped around his shoulders until he found himself pressed against a warm chest, encased in the safety of the older man. With a strong hand on the back of his head for support, Hawkeye gave way to the sobs rising in his chest.

Daniel felt tears in his own eyes as he held his son close. The pain he had seen in those wide, unseeing eyes providing a reminder he wished he hadn't needed. This wasn't the confident young man who had laughed even as he boarded the plane. It was his little boy. Only now he needed more than his father alone could give him.


	2. Return to your Valleys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music/television references for anyone who's interested, in order of appearance :)
> 
> \- The TV show they're watching is What's My Line, the particular episode aired in 1970 (shhh) with Alan Alda as a contestant.  
> \- The song on the radio is Perry Como's Don't Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes  
> \- Hawkeye is singing Ain't We Got Fun, any version you like.  
> \- And he whistles Star Dust by Hoagy Carmichael

Almost as soon as he had calmed down, Hawkeye was back to his usual self. The two men spent dinner laughing and reminiscing about days long past, letting their food turn cold as they used to. Eventually they found themselves in front of the television, Daniel in his chair, and Hawkeye sprawled on the rug, legs up on the couch, watching upside down. To look at them you would think they had gone back in time, to the days of their first television set and a restless teenaged boy.

"I scream, you scream, we all scream for-" Hawkeye timed his commentary perfectly as the game-show contestant questioned, " _ice-cream?"_

With his son safe and happy, at least for the moment, Daniel pushed himself out of his chair. He had been thinking it over on and off for the last few days, and now he knew it was time for him to make the call. Once inside his study he closed the door gently behind him, smiling to himself as he heard Hawkeye's laughter through the wood. That boy's laugh had never struggled to fill every corner of the house. Daniel took a seat at the old desk, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket as he did. He attempted to smooth it out against the wood, but there was little that could be done. He had been carrying the letter since the day he'd received it, reading it over again in any free moment.

He skimmed over the familiar words to the line at the bottom, reaching for the phone as he did. He didn't really need the reference, having read it so many times he could recite it by heart, but it gave him confidence to have the words in front of him. A month ago he wouldn't have been happy calling anyone in a situation like this. Then he got the letter, and the first name was added to the list.

* * *

The Hunnicutt house was full of noise when the phone rang. The radio was on in the kitchen, the words of Perry Como being drowned out by an enthusiastic Erin, who at this point was singing along to everything she heard, despite knowing none of the words. BJ was bouncing the toddler on his lap as he watched his wife dancing around the kitchen preparing dinner. At the sound of the phone Peg turned down the music and took Erin from her father's knee, sitting her up on the bench to help with the preparations.

BJ was still smiling when he picked up the receiver and accepted the call. "Hello?"

"BJ? It's Daniel Pierce. How are you? How's the little monkey?"

The voice on the other end was calm, but it put BJ immediately on edge. He hadn't heard from Hawkeye since they'd left Korea, though he'd tried more than once by phone and mail.

"Mr Pierce! Is everything alright?" He had only spoken to Hawkeye's father once before, and then Daniel had only been able to say two words. "Hawkeye?"

"Nothing's happened, it's alright." For a moment there was silence, and then a deep breath. "I think he needs more help than I can give him, BJ. Yours is the only number I have."

BJ didn't miss a beat. "What do you need?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure I even know that." Daniel sighed. He had learnt by now that there were some things his son needed that he couldn't provide. But that didn't make asking any easier. "I don't think he should be on his own. He's not going to want to talk. He needs someone to wait him out, someone who knows what he's going through. Listen, I'm not asking you to fly over here. You've got your own life to think about. I just need to know who to call."

"You don't have to ask, sir. He's my best friend." BJ took a moment to think, trying to get his thoughts in order. "Let me make some calls, I'll get things sorted for you. Can I call you tomorrow morning?"

BJ took down the number of the Crabapple Cove surgery. Early morning in California meant mid-morning in Maine, and it was unlikely he'd manage to call before Daniel had arrived at work. He hung up the phone without replacing the receiver, and turned to find Peg standing in the doorway behind him.

Her expression was serious, and he could tell she'd heard at least some of the call. "Hawkeye?" She asked quietly. BJ simply nodded in reply, there were no words that could explain everything running through his mind at that moment. Peg walked over to him, reaching up to stroke his cheek. Seeing the worry in his eyes she didn't need to understand all that he was feeling. She knew enough. "Do whatever you need to do."

Peg went off to help Erin wash her hands for dinner, and BJ sank into the chair beside the phone. If he wanted to get this done quickly, there was only one person he needed to call. "Operator? Ottumwa, Iowa please."

* * *

When Daniel returned to the loungeroom he found Hawkeye standing in front of the television, staring blankly down at the screen. The younger man started slightly as the door came to, and looked up to face his father, giving him a half-smile.

"I was just going to bed. Did you want me to leave it on?" He asked, gesturing to the television.

"No, that's alright." Daniel paused for a moment, watching his son with concern. "If you need anything tonight..."

"I'll yell, I'm sure."

"See if you can wake the neighbours too, they've been getting a bit restless lately. Mrs Lakeman's been watering her garden about five times a day."

Hawkeye's smile broke into a grin. "I'll try to add something special just for her." He switched off the television set and danced over to the staircase, before bounding up two steps at a time, all the while singing, "In the morning, in the evening, ain't we got fun…"

At the top of the stairs Hawkeye slowed his pace, letting his smile fade, though he continued to hum to himself. He swung his bedroom door closed behind him and paused for a moment before leaning back against it. Closing his eyes, he tapped the back of his head gently against the wood. He had no idea why he'd come upstairs, just that he'd suddenly wanted to be alone. Now that he was alone, however, he wanted to be anything but.

The silence in the empty room seemed to hum in his ears, and he could feel his heart start to jolt inside in his chest. Always now it seemed he was afraid, though what he was afraid of he didn't always know. Emotion was building in his stomach, and his eyes shot open to face the window opposite. The black night behind it made the glass a faded mirror, and he found himself face to face with his reflection. Taking slow, deep breaths he stared into his own eyes, searching for… something. But they were blank, his thoughts hidden behind the self-involved glaze he'd seen so often around the camp. Was that what his father saw?

He sighed heavily and broke the stare, searching with one hand for the light switch. When the darkness of the outside was matched within the room, there was no reflection. With his hands in his pockets he walked across the room and stood by the glass, gazing down onto the street below. There he could see the driveway where he'd learned to play basketball; the trees he'd climbed, and fallen out of, and climbed again; the road he had raced down, on foot, on his bike, in the rickety cart they'd made in Toby's garage. It felt like he'd spent his childhood running, out into the world, until the sun went down and his mother called him home.

He could hear her voice then as clear as ever, and he turned back to face his empty room. It was the same room he'd always had, and though it was clear now of many of his things, every chip of paint still held a reminder of days past. And there, sitting in the darkness on the pillows of his bed, was a stuffed owl. Hawkeye stood for a moment in disbelief, before walking over to the bed and slowly picking up the toy. It looked so small in his adult hands, so tattered and worn compared to his memories. The last he could remember having it he had been 10 years old, and it had stayed with him every night.

Without another thought he placed the owl carefully back on the bed and went to the door. No light was coming in from underneath it, and the only sounds he could make out were the familiar movements of the old house. Taking his chances that Daniel was actually asleep, and not just in his room rereading Last of the Mohicans, Hawkeye opened the door into the silent hallway and made his way downstairs. Once in the loungeroom he put on the sweater he'd left there that afternoon and headed for the front door; he might be crazy, but he wasn't going to let himself freeze.

The warmth of summer faded quickly this far north, and Hawkeye pushed his hands into his pockets as he walked the sleeping streets. Only a select few of the streets of Crabapple Cove were lit at night, and the route he had chosen met none of them. The blanket of the night brought comfort to his anxious mind, without it he knew he would never have brought himself to leave the house. Gazing up at the stars in the clear night sky, he began to whistle, softly at first, but growing louder with every step.

Even in the darkness he could see the simple iron gates long before he reached them, and the moment they came into view a sense of urgency overcame him and his pace quickened. But when he finally found himself crossing the threshold, he slowed again almost to a standstill. It had been a long time since he'd walked onto those grounds, and the shadows of the night did nothing to help the feeling that he should never have come. Nonetheless he continued on, weaving his way slowly between stones and statues, until he found just the one he was looking for.

He stood for a moment then, surrounded by the music of the night, of birds rustling in the branches and the last of the summer crickets singing beneath the ground. All the world seemed muted to him then, as though a cloud lay across the sources of sound, and when he finally spoke, his voice rang out across the cemetery.

"Hey, Mom. I'm sorry it's been a while."


	3. So Many Different Worlds

"Nice place you got here." Hawkeye lay on the cool ground beside his mother's grave, staring up at the stars. "You know people come from all over the state to look at this cemetery. Dad reckons it's the tombstones, but I'm pretty sure it's for the people. I came all the way from Korea, so I oughta know." He held out an invisible microphone to the space beside him. "Now you've gone international, what are you going to do with the money?"

"Personally I think you should buy a new dress. That one you're wearing's so 20 years ago. I know an excellent seamstress, sewed his way through a whole war. But then, so did I." He paused when he realised what he'd said, though only for a fraction of a second, before continuing his rant at full speed.

"Speaking of sewing, Dad still can't darn his socks. He's single handedly keeping Mr Marsh in business with the number of pairs he buys. I don't know what people thinks he does with them. One year he saved up all his old ones and sent them to the school and they put on the entire musical of Oklahoma with sock puppets." There he stopped for breath, an idiotic smile playing on his lips.

"He must be playing a hell of a lot of golf to go through them so fast, too. Either that or he's been sneaking out to the high school sock hops at night. It's not like he's standing at surgery all day." Again Hawkeye caught himself a second too late, only this time his mind stalled in its search for a diversion, and he sighed. "I thought about you a lot while I was away, you know. There were a lot of great women over there. Oh, boy were there a lot of great women." For a moment his mind was filled with images of the beautiful nurses he had known there, until the memory of frightened eyes over surgical masks brought him back.

"Honestly, though, I don't know what we would have done without them. And it was more than just the work they did. Father Mulcahy used to say there was just something about a woman, her tenderness…They gave life, in a way I'm not sure the rest of us could." He fell silent once more, his thoughts moving steadily closer to a place he wasn't sure his words could follow.

For some time he stared up at the stars, drawing over the familiar constellations with his eyes, as all the while a single sentence repeated in his mind. A strong breeze disturbed the stillness of the night, and Hawkeye folded his arms across his chest in defense against the cold. The hard ground beneath him offered no comfort, yet still he had no desire to move. There was no way he could bring himself to leave before he had said what he knew he needed to, no matter how long it took him.

The silence that had taken hold of him was not easily displaced, and even when he felt he was ready to speak his mouth opened mutely more than once. Finally he was fed up with himself, with his weakness, his inability, and he closed his eyes firmly and filled the night with the words he had been so afraid of.

"I don't know what to do, Mom. I don't know what's happened to me." Once he had begun the words poured out. "I thought I'd fixed this, I thought I was okay, but now I can barely close my eyes. I'm afraid to go to sleep at night. I can't work. Two weeks ago I went into the surgery to see Dad... I was only in there about a minute... this kid came in from one of the fishing boats, he couldn't have been more than 14, got his hand caught in a winch. It was a mess, he was covered in blood..." He breathed in sharply as he remembered it, though this was not the first time.

The crunch of feet on gravel kept Hawkeye silent, and he opened his eyes to see the beam of a torch swing towards him. He put an arm across his eyes as the light fell directly on his face, the beginnings of panic bubbling inside him.

"Aren't you a little bit old to be sleeping with your mother?" Daniel Pierce quipped, moving the torchlight away from his son's eyes. He had woken in the night to find Hawkeye's bedroom door wide open, and the room empty. His worry had sent him searching the streets of the small town, until he had found himself at the cemetery gate, a place he himself had visited more than once since the war had ended.

At the sound of his father's voice, Hawkeye had hoped his stomach would calm, but the thought of what might be to come kept him on edge. "Tell that to Oedipus," he joked in return, pushing himself up onto stiff limbs. "Did I break curfew?"

"Oh, only a little bit." Daniel tossed a jacket to the younger man before leading the way down to the car in silence. Once they were on the road, he looked over to see the dark head resting against the passenger window, wide eyes staring out into the road. "How long were you out there?"

"I didn't think I was any longer than usual. Why? Did you notice something?" Hawkeye's head lifted in feigned concern, and he looked worriedly down at his ankles. "Should I start letting down my pants?" Even as he said it he knew it wasn't funny; he was clutching at straws.

"Hawk." Daniel's voice was stern, a tone the gentle doctor seldom used. They had pulled into the driveway a moment before, but neither man made a move to leave the car.

Hawkeye sighed, once again resting his head against the cool glass. "I dunno, a while. I wasn't really keeping track of the time."

"Have you slept at all?"

"I don't think so, no."

For a moment the two men sat in silence, unmoving, neither one prepared to face the other. When Daniel finally turned to his son, he found only a vacant stare, glazed eyes lost in the space between the window and the ground.

* * *

It wasn't until later that night that BJ and Peg had a moment to themselves. Erin had been somewhat reluctantly put to bed, the dishes had been washed and put away, and everything had been put ready for the morning when they finally found themselves together in the living room. BJ switched the television off for the night and sat with his wife on the couch, wrapping an arm around her as he did.

"What are you going to do?" Peg asked quietly. Her question needed no further explanation, as they had both been thinking of little else but Hawkeye for most of the night.

"Radar helped me get in touch with some of the others, to try and sort out some kind of system. He needs someone with him right now." BJ paused for a moment before adding, somewhat sadly, "He needs Sidney."

"He can't see him?"

"Not straight away, no. He was the first person I called after Radar. He's working at Walter Reed now, and by the sound of things he's snowed under. If we could get Hawkeye to him, he might be able to fit him in somewhere, but it'll be a while before he has time for a trip up to Maine." Not for the first time BJ missed how physically close they had all once been. Living in each others pockets had driven them crazy on more than one occasion, but there was something to be said for proximity. No one had ever been too far away then.

"Anyway, I managed to put together a sort of roster, to try and buy him some time," BJ continued, taking a folded piece of notepaper from his shirt pocket.

Peg leaned in closer to him as she looked it over, checking off the familiar names in her mind. When she reached the end, she looked up at her husband. "Why aren't you here?"

BJ looked down at her, his eyes full of emotion. "There are a lot of reasons."

"You don't want to leave us." Her tone was matter-of-fact, and she continued without hesitation, "We'll go with you."

"Peg," his voice was soft as his hand found hers. "I'm not so sure I could take you both." There he stopped, letting the final word linger in the quiet room.

"You have to go, BJ. You know you do."

A smile played on BJ's lips and he squeezed his wife's hand. The sheer depth of her support and understanding never ceased to amaze him. "I wish it was that easy. You know we can't afford the flight over." 3000 miles had never seemed so far.

Peg wrapped an arm around him and held him close. It hadn't been easy for either of them when BJ had first come home. There were still nights when he would wake her, calling for a nurse in his dreams, but they were growing steadily fewer with each passing week. She could hardly imagine how life must be in the Pierce household. For the sake of all involved, Peg knew she needed to get her husband to Maine, and he wasn't going alone.


	4. Fear and Alarm

It was early Monday morning when Daniel found himself sitting in the kitchen, trying hopelessly to think of a way to tell Hawkeye what he had done. In the three days that had passed since their midnight drive, they had each managed to avoid any serious conversation. Neither one of them had slept much, Hawkeye sneaking bottles of wine into his room to drink the nights away, and Daniel lying awake in the dark, listening as his son joked and sang for an invisible audience. A number of phone calls had passed, however, between the Crabapple Cove surgery and Mill Valley, California, and a series of plans had been put into place.

The older man sighed and ran his fingers through his greying hair. He had had countless conversations much more important than this with his patients, but when it came to his son, things were different. Here he had no title to shield him, no office to distance himself from the life being changed.

The sound of lazy feet dragging their way down the stairs quieted his thoughts, and he took a long drink of his coffee, regretting it instantly. It was cold. "Morning," he said simply, nodding to his son as he entered the kitchen.

"Morning," Hawkeye mumbled in response. His mouth was dry, head aching beyond belief, and he had barely been asleep two hours. He had hoped that it would be early enough for his father to still be in bed, but he wasn't so lucky.

Neither of them spoke for a moment as the younger Pierce took a box of painkillers from the cupboard and quickly swallowed them, along with two full glasses of water. He was just about to leave with a third when Daniel stopped him.

"Why don't you sit down for a minute." There was something of Colonel Potter in his tone, making the simple request sound more like an order.

"Okay, but just for a minute, I promised Marilyn I wouldn't keep her waiting." Hawkeye pulled out a chair and sat down, leaning his head back against the wall and watching his dad through almost closed eyes.

In all the time he had spent thinking, Daniel hadn't managed to find a good way to start. Without giving himself any more time to worry, he spoke, "Someone's coming to see you today."

Slowly Hawkeye opened his eyes and asked suspiciously, "Someone who?"

"Margaret. She wanted to see you, she's going to stay with us for a few days."

Now his head came off the wall, and he leaned forward, shocked. "Margaret  _Houlihan_ , Margaret? What in the hell would she be coming here for?"

Hints of anger had started to seep into his voice, and Daniel answered quickly in an attempt to contain his son. "She wants to see you. I spoke to BJ and-"

"You  _what_?" Hawkeye's voice started to rise until he was almost shouting across the table. "You spoke to BJ?! What- Why-" for a moment he struggled to find words, "What, are you just calling my friends now? Filling them in on the latest episode of Loony Tunes?!" He sprang up from the table and started to pace the room.

"Come off it, Hawk, you know that's not how it is!" Daniel tried to continue, but Hawkeye didn't give him a chance.

"No, of course not. My dad's just been chatting to my friends, who he's never met, arranging sleepovers for us. That's not strange at all, I must just be 10 years old again." His tone changed quickly to one of mockery, "Gee Dad, please can I have a quarter to go to the movies? Dickie's dad gave him a dollar and he's gonna buy us all ice-cream!"

Then Daniel was standing too. "Cut it out! I called BJ because I'm worried about you, alright?!"

"I'm  _fine_. I spent three years pulling bodies out of a sausage grinder, don't I deserve a little time off?!" Hawkeye turned away from his father, planting his hands on the kitchen bench to help support himself. His head was pounding, and every syllable felt like a blow. When he spoke again it was more quietly, though with no less aggression. "You have no idea, alright? And neither do they. None of them were over there as long as I was! So no, maybe I don't want to go straight back to work, maybe I want some time where no one else is relying on me. That doesn't make me crazy!"

"Nobody thinks you're crazy, Hawkeye." Daniel placed a hand on his son's shoulder and stood with him in silence for a long moment.

"Yeah," Hawkeye muttered, leaving the kitchen without looking back.

Back in his room, he sat on the floor at the end of his bed, rolling a baseball back and forth beneath his palm. Behind his hollow stare he repeated his father's words:  _Nobody thinks you're crazy, Hawkeye._  There weren't many things he was certain of anymore, but he knew that couldn't be further from the truth. Growing up in a small town you learnt to recognise when other people were talking about you, swapping stories behind your back. He knew Crabapple Cove thought he was crazy. And it seemed pretty clear to him they weren't wrong.

Playing the scene over in his mind served only to pull him deeper into himself. His dad had been trying to help him, trying to do the right thing in a situation neither of them knew how to handle. He wished Daniel had yelled back at him, had done anything at all to justify his anger. But of course he could only stand and watch as the son he had known so well became someone else before his eyes. Every day Hawkeye felt the guilt mounting higher, as more and more charges were added to his record. He carried the deaths of countless boys on his shoulders, and with every sleepless night, every sorrowful glance, his father was slowly joining the list.

It was only when the baseball was knocked from its course that he realised his hands were shaking. He clenched them tightly into fists in a feeble attempt to stop their movement. He was pathetic, useless, a quivering wreck sitting helpless in a collapsing world, and this was his evidence. Once, his hands had been valuable, now they were worthless. A familiar anger sparked inside him, and he grabbed the ball in his unsteady hand, hurling it with all his power at the closet doors in front of him. The crash of the wood did nothing to satisfy him, for his was an anger driven entirely by shame.

* * *

When BJ finally came down for breakfast he found coffee and toast already waiting for him. He sat down across from Peg, grinning broadly.

"I'm so lucky to have you." Every morning that he came down to her only served to make him more grateful to be home.

Peg returned his smile, though perhaps with less confidence. "I'd like to hear that again after you've eaten breakfast."

"Why don't I just say it again now?" BJ was too happy to wonder at the meaning of her comment. "I am so lucky to have you, Peg Hunnicutt."

"Just eat your breakfast," Peg replied with a laugh, watching as BJ picked up a piece of toast and took an exaggerated bite. "I was thinking, with everything that's happening with Hawkeye, maybe you should take some time off work." She did her best to sound casual, busily rearranging the few flowers in the centre of the table in an attempt to avoid his gaze.

BJ took a moment to swallow his toast before answering, "I'd like to, but I don't think I can. I doubt they'd let me go after two weeks." He took a sip of coffee before continuing, "There's no point in asking until I find a way to get out there anyway."

With the conversation started, Peg was steadily gaining confidence, and she looked him in the eye as she spoke, "You should ask."

"Honey, if I thought it would do anything, I would. It's just… too complicated right now."

"Not anymore it's not," she said with a sly smile.

He stopped, mug suspended in mid-air. "What have you done?" It wasn't an accusation, but his tone was serious.

"I know you how much you need to be there, BJ," she spoke softly, her voice full of sympathy. "I got us a flight next week, all three of us. Erin and I are going to stay at a hotel, but it's up to you if you'd rather stay at the Pierce's."

There was only a short pause before BJ's mug hit the table, perhaps with a little more force than he had intended. "Where did you get the money?"

"Daniel Pierce paid for your ticket. He rang you in the first place because he wants you there. Then I called Dad and asked if he could help with the rest." She knew BJ wouldn't be happy, as he resented any addition to their debts, so she added quickly, "He was more than happy to help us, you know he always is."

"Wait," BJ put a hand to his forehead. "Let me get this straight. Hawk's dad rang again and you didn't tell me? And then you borrowed  _hundreds of dollars_  to book flights for  _all three of us_? Without talking to me first?" He asked, his tone filled with disbelief.

"Daniel didn't call here, I called him." Peg answered calmly, fully intending to continue her explanation.

BJ quickly cut her off, sighing in exasperation. "Jesus, Peg! You've got to talk to me about these things!" It only took him a second to collect his thoughts before he began his instructions, "Listen, you need to call the airline this morning, as soon as they open, see if they can't refund you the flights. I'll give Mr Pierce a ring from the hospital and organise to fly over this weekend, if I can. Then-"

"No." It was Peg's turn to cut him off. She stood as she spoke, collecting the plates from the table. "We can leave this weekend if you like, but I won't let you go on your own." She spoke sternly to him, the plates clattering into the sink as she finished.

BJ watched her from where he sat, even when they were fighting he thought she was beautiful. "We'll talk about this when I get home," he said, pushing himself up from his seat and leaving the room without another word.

Peg busied herself washing the few dishes from the morning as she listened for the sound of the front door closing. When finally he was out of the house she stopped, staring blankly out the small window as she tried to think.

"Mommy!" Erin's little feet came pounding into the kitchen. "I got a note!"

Peg smiled and turned around to see her daughter, who was standing proudly pointing to her chest. There, pinned to front of her t-shirt, was a white piece of paper, bearing the bold words,  _I am so lucky to have you._

"What does it say?!" Erin squealed impatiently; this seemed to have become a habit of BJ's in the weeks he had been home.

Peg laughed as she knelt to Erin's level. "It says Daddy loves us, sweetie."


	5. They Did Hurt Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to John for proofreading for me, and rosiesbar for writing Hawkeye's opening dialogue. Without her genius, it would significantly less funny, I assure you.

It was early afternoon when a taxi pulled up across from the Pierce house. For a moment Margaret sat motionless, staring with fascination at the street outside her window. Historic houses gave way to beautiful gardens, each filled with lovingly tended flower beds and sprinkled with the first leaves of fall. Each property flowed into the next, but the character of every owner shone through the woodwork, a stark contrast to the uniformity of the army base. As she stepped out of the cab and faced the welcoming garden path to Hawkeye's front door, Margaret finally understood why his memories of Crabapple Cove had meant so much. From the tattered rope hanging in the old beech tree to the worn out welcome mat at the door, there was no doubt this house had always been a home.

Margaret paused again by the mailbox, putting down her bags as she collected the stack of letters waiting for the Pierce's. Flicking through the envelopes, she noted happily more than one familiar hand in the abundance addressed to Hawkeye. She was the first to visit, not because she was the closest, or cared the most, but simply because the call to arms had come at the perfect time, when she had already arranged for leave. For the entirety of the train ride from New York, and the drive that followed it, she'd sorted through memories and thoughts of the man she was heading to see, trying desperately to come up with a solution for him, a cure. It was only once she had knocked on his door that she wondered if it had been wise to stay in her uniform.

Her thoughts were cut short as the door swung open, and there he was, the same Hawkeye Pierce she had kissed goodbye what seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Margaret! Thank God you're here! Got something of an emergency here and we need to operate." His voice was slightly manic, and he wore the same madcap smile as he had when they had first worked together. "Gown on, go scrub up. Actually don't - I like the casual look." Without pausing for a reply he pulled her bag into the hallway and opened it hurriedly, tossing the contents haphazardly around him. "Patient is showing signs of a blockage. I need to open him up, clear the obstruction, get some fluids circulating..."

For a moment Margaret was stunned. This was Hawkeye, but he was not the same. Dark circles hung below his bloodshot eyes, it had been at least a week since he had last shaved, and though his underwear was civilian now, it was in worse condition than his uniform had ever been. Worst of all, though, was the one thing that remained jarringly familiar: tied around his neck, was a clean, white surgical mask.

"Pierce!" Margaret's shriek shattered the calm of the street, but Hawkeye ignored it just as he had done so many times before.

"You came prepared, right?" His wild eyes flashed up at her, scanning quickly along the length of her uniform."Oh Margaret, you disappoint me! Weren't you ever in the Boy Scouts? Oh don't look at me like that, they'd have snapped you up - strong boy like you, square jaw, broad shoulders. You'd fit right in!" He held up her pocket knife triumphantly. "See? I knew I could count on you!"

Before she had a chance to stop him he had run from the hall, leaving the floor strewn with her clothes. She hurriedly grabbed a few of the more embarrassing items and threw them back into the bag, cursing him under her breath as she chased him into the lounge room.

"Just what exactly do-" she stopped in her tracks when she reached the doorway, confronted by the intense concentration of the doctor. Hawkeye was kneeling down in front of the coffee table, surgical mask now pulled up over his face, as he worked with the utmost precision to cut away the wax seal from a bottle of scotch. His arm was unusually tense, and after so many hundreds of hours assigned to him in surgery, Margaret could tell he was working hard to keep the knife steady.

"There we go!" He announced proudly, peeling the wax from the bottle. "Corkscrew." He held out his hand to where he assumed Margaret would be, not looking up from the bottle. When the instrument didn't appear in his hand, he looked up to where she was standing in the doorway. "Come on, Margaret, move it!"

Once, she would have reacted immediately, telling him to stop being so ridiculous and just open the bottle. But now she wasn't sure that he was just being ridiculous. Her hesitation only lasted a moment when her military background kicked in.

"Get up, Pierce, and stop making such a fool of yourself." Her tone was stern, but not angry. At the sound of it, Hawkeye's smile slackened slightly, and a hint of fear crept into his bright eyes.

* * *

Peg sat patiently in the lobby, her eyes fixed on the heavily trafficked double doors that led to the rest of the hospital. She had called BJ earlier and arranged to meet him for lunch, to finish the conversation they had started that morning. After his reluctant agreement she wasn't surprised he was late to meet her. She was starting to get restless when finally she saw him push through the doors, long white coat flaring out behind him.

"Sorry I kept you waiting, darling." He greeted her with a smile as he helped her to her feet. "There were just a couple of patients I needed to see before I could go off."

Peg smiled back, and they chattered about nothing as he lead her through to the hospital canteen. When finally they had bought food they found a somewhat private table in the corner of the room, she delicately steered the conversation back to their morning conflict.

"Is there anything I need to get ready before this weekend?" She asked innocently.

BJ knew her well enough to see what she was doing, and didn't rise to the bait. "No, that's fine." He took another bite of his lunch. "I met the sweetest little boy this morning."

* * *

"Take that stupid thing off," her voice was soft as she spoke, referring to the surgical mask. The pair were sitting on the couch, one at each end, the space between them stretching out until it felt like an eternity.

Hawkeye was slouched forward, elbows on his knees as he looked from her to the floor. With the mask over his face it was easier to keep smiling, to keep the glint in his eyes and the conversation light. Without its protection, she would see him falter. He knew he had no choice though, so he reached up and pulled the top string over his head, letting the mask fall from his face. As it did, he flicked his head around to face her and stuck out his tongue in defiance.

Leaning back against the arm of the couch, he adopted a devilish smile, "Did you leave the General just for little old me? I didn't know I meant so much to you!"

Margaret's mouth fell open indignantly, and she made a sound of protest. "How dare you?!" She began.

"You don't need to lie to me, Margaret," Hawkeye cut in, his voice almost sickly sweet. "I saw what was in your bag," he gave an exaggerated wink.

The major restrained herself from reacting further, opting instead to hand him the mail she was still carrying. "Here, I brought in your mail," she spoke bluntly as she thrust the letters towards him.

Hawkeye took them from her and proceeded to flick through them, glancing at the names on each one. Among the official letters and bills addressed to his father there were at least half a dozen handwritten envelopes, all for him.

"I'll just go and get my things," Margaret said as she stood, feeling suddenly awkward in the quiet room. As she left Hawkeye heard her mumble something about his father and "bringing home the Swamp".

* * *

Peg only let BJ control the conversation for a few minutes before she tried again. "Would you like to tell Erin yourself?"

"About what?" He feigned ignorance.

"About the trip."

"Oh, right. You tell her. I hate to be the bearer of bad news."

Peg couldn't help but smile; she had found a crack. "Bad news?"

* * *

When Margaret returned to the lounge room, the letters had been thrown on the floor, unopened. She left her bag by the door and watched as Hawkeye pulled the cork from the bottle of scotch.

"I take it this is why no one's heard from you in the last month," she said, nodding to the letters.

"What can I say, I get a lot of fanmail. I can't answer it all."

* * *

At the sight of her smile, BJ realised he had made a wrong move. It was time to stop playing the game. "You're not coming, Peg." His voice was flat, his face serious.

"Yes, I am." Peg replied stubbornly. "There are plenty of reasons why we should come with you. I can't think of one good reason we should stay." BJ opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off before he had a chance, "Money is  _not_ a good reason."

"It'll be better for everyone if you stay here." BJ reached across the table to take her hand. "It won't be for long, I promise. You won't even notice I'm gone."

"What do you mean, better for everyone?" She spoke softly, a hint of sadness in her words. "It isn't better for us."

* * *

Hawkeye poured the scotch into two glasses, sliding one towards Margaret as she walked over to the table. "Shall we?" He held his glass aloft, preparing to toast, before breaking into a loud yawn.

"That's it," Margaret replaced her glass on the table. "You need to go to bed. Right now."

"Is that an offer?" Hawkeye asked with a sly smile.

"No, it's an order."

His smile grew. "Does that mean you brought your whip?"

"Upstairs. Now!" She barked, not yielding an inch as she pointed to the staircase.

"Yes, sir, Major, sir!" Hawkeye replied in his best soldier voice, downing his scotch before marching comically to the stairs.

* * *

"Trust me, sweetheart, you don't want to meet him like this. Besides, that house is no place for Erin."

"So we'll stay at the hotel." She looked up at him, eyes filled with emotion. Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke again. "I don't want you to go alone."

BJ dropped his eyes to where his hand held hers, searching desperately for another excuse.

* * *

"Pajamas!" Margaret continued to instruct him as she followed him into his room. "And clean underwear!"

Hawkeye hid himself behind the closet door, dropping his smile as he tried desperately to calm his erratic heart. Pajamas, he needed pajamas; the sooner he found them, the sooner she would leave him alone.

* * *

"BJ?" Peg knew he was avoiding her gaze, and she squeezed his hand in an attempt to comfort him.

* * *

 "Hawkeye?" Margaret was behind him now, her voice soft with compassion. For the third time in less than a week he had been caught off-guard, only this time he seemed unable to turn around with a smile and a quip. When finally he did look at her, she offered him a glass and two small pills. "Take these."

* * *

BJ let go of her hand, leaning back in his chair and turning his eyes to the wall. "I don't want you there, Peg."

* * *

Hawkeye looked from the pills to Margaret, his dazed stare suddenly focused. "No."


	6. I've Witnessed Your Suffering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again many thanks to John for editing with me, and rosiesbar for adding some dialogue :)
> 
> Also, I put together a floor plan of the Pierce house, which you can see on my tumblr (asinfreedom.tumblr.com/tagged/map) if you're interested!

By the time Daniel got home Hawkeye was asleep, the living room was clean, and Margaret was sitting on the couch, staring at a magazine she had long since stopped reading. Lost in thought, she didn't hear Daniel until he was walking into the room. Startled, she pulled her feet out from under her, slipping them into her shoes before they hit the floor. The two had already met, as Margaret's first stop in Crabapple Cove had been to the surgery.

"Don't get up on my account," Daniel said with a smile. "Is he upstairs?"

Margaret stood regardless. "Asleep. Although he wasn't very happy about it."

Daniel collapsed heavily into his usual chair, nodding to his guest to do the same. "I'm sorry you had to do that." He sighed, knowing that Hawkeye's behaviour would have been far from ideal.

"Oh no, it wasn't a problem. I am a nurse, you know, I've had my share of uncooperative patients." It was clear that he was unhappy, so Margaret slid closer to him along the couch. "He's very strong, Sir. I'm sure he'll make it through this."

Daniel stood slowly, not looking at her. "Would you like a drink, Margaret?"

Without waiting for an answer he disappeared into the kitchen, returning with the decanter of scotch Margaret had left on the bench, and two clean glasses. Not a word was said, and the two sat together in silence as the drinks were poured. Only when Daniel was sitting comfortably again did he speak.

"He was one hell of a kid, you know." His eyes focused on the table before him as the memory of past smiles lingered on his tired face. "Nobody knew what to do with him at first. He was always getting himself into some scrape or other, nothing I could do to stop him, and the school - ha - I don't think they'd ever seen one like him. Smart as anything though." His smile faded. "He still is. All he ever wanted to do was laugh."

Margaret sipped slowly at her drink, keeping her true emotions from reaching her face with practiced ease. The man slowly revealing himself to her was familiar in more ways than one, and in his grief she saw a clear reflection of his son.

After pausing to sift through his thoughts, Daniel looked up at her. "What was he like, over there? Was it... always like this?" He pictured the son he had said goodbye to all those years ago; a young man, eyeing the air hostesses, still laughing even as he boarded the plane. He knew it was his Hawkeye that had landed in Korea, but what he could not be sure of, was that it wasn't his Hawkeye who had boarded that same plane home.

Margaret didn't hesitate with her reply, "Oh no, he was just like you described." This was a question she had spent much of the day thinking over, and her answer was prepared. "An overgrown schoolboy with too much confidence, and no respect. He was an absolute horror to his superiors, but not many people could say they didn't want him around, particularly when things were difficult."

Daniel fiddled absentmindedly with his glass on the arm of the chair, a look of concern still in his eyes. Margaret's expression became more serious, and she almost reached out to him, before thinking better of it. Cautiously, she spoke, "Sir… Daniel, how much did they tell you, before he came home?"

The question was vague, but he knew exactly what she was referring to. "Hawkeye wrote to me, but not until he was back at the unit. He told me where he'd been, but he didn't say why, didn't tell me anything that had happened." He paused, finally taking his first sip of scotch. "Then after he'd been home a couple of days, I got a letter from BJ. It explained… a lot of things. I think that letter told me more than Hawk's ever going to."

"He was like this long before he came home," Margaret spoke quickly and bluntly. "It started a long time ago, and it just grew over time. I think most of us were too close to see what was coming until it happened." She finished her drink. "Would you like me to make you something to eat?"

"No, thank you," his voice was soft with gratitude. "I think I'll go to bed. Make yourself at home, Margaret. Just let me know if there's anything you need." Daniel finished his drink and put the glass on the table, pushing himself up with an effort. It was still early, the sun was only just beginning to set, but exhaustion was taking over, and finally he felt he could let it.

Once upstairs, he found himself outside Hawkeye's door, the peaceful silence behind it almost mesmerising. Carefully he turned the handle, pushing the door open just enough to see inside. There was his son, curled up in the mess of blankets, his face calm among the chaos. But as he watched, the scene felt all too familiar.

"You made it home, Benji. You're here," he whispered, as much to himself as to Hawkeye. "You're alive." He stepped back, closing the door. "So why do I feel like I'm in mourning?"

* * *

Margaret sat up in bed and fumbled to turn on the lamp beside her. She closed her eyes for a moment in the bright light, taking the opportunity to slow her breathing. She regulated each breath, counting them in her head, hoping that it might stop her heart from rattling the bars of her ribcage. Slowly she opened her eyes, looking to the clock at her bedside to see if there was any point in trying to go back to sleep. With the knowledge that she still had at least three hours until she would normally be up, Margaret threw off the blankets and put her feet on the floor. Experience had taught her that it was useless to stay in bed and just wait for sleep to come.

Leaving her room, the darkness of the hallway was as blinding as the light had first been, and she made her way to the bathroom with a hand on each wall. She stopped in her tracks when the wall to her right was suddenly gone, her own situation immediately forgotten.

She moved into the open doorway and whispered into the darkness. "Hawkeye? Are you alright?"

Her words were met with silence, and without another thought she flicked on the light. It was too early in the morning to play games. In the light she found an empty room, blankets tossed across the bed haphazardly. Wherever he was now, at least she could tell he had slept deeply, if not peacefully.

Margaret turned off the light and closed the door behind her and moved as quickly as she could down the stairs in the darkness. At the bottom she found the living room dark as well, though the light streaming through from the kitchen helped her avoid any serious injury on the table corners. The cold air didn't hit her until she'd reached the doorway to the kitchen and found it empty, and immediately her attention turned to the back door, standing ajar in the still night.

Outside, Hawkeye was sitting with his feet up on the old wooden table. His red robe was wrapped around him against the cold, his arms crossed over his chest, as he stared up into the infinity of the night sky. He heard the creak of the door clearly in the silence, but it wasn't until his visitor was almost upon him that he lifted his head, turning to face her.

"I'm sorry, Margaret." His voice was soft, and it felt strange to finally speak after sitting mutely for so long. "For before."

She took the seat across from him, letting his words resonate for a moment in her tired mind. Before she could respond, his voice broke into her thoughts.

"Are you alright?"

"Of course, I just came out looking for you. You should still be in bed."

He didn't take his eyes off her. "Those pills you gave me got me into the sack alright, but they sure as hell don't make me want to stay there."

Margaret frowned. "Dreams?"

"I'm not sure I'd call them dreams. More like reality on steroids." He leant his head back against the chair and turned up to face the stars once more. "Go back to bed, Margaret. You need your sleep." The emotion he had greeted her with was gone.

After all they had been through together, Margaret was not so easily dismissed, and she answered him sternly. "That 'woe is me' routine might work on your father, but don't think for one second it's going to work on me. Do you really think you're the only one who has nightmares?"

Had their been even a hint more anger in her tone, Hawkeye's response would have been very different, but as it was, a sudden realisation filled him with concern. "I didn't… I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry." As he spoke, he brought his legs down from the table, and sat up properly in his seat. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Margaret's face was closed as she kept a tight grip on her emotions, though she turned away from him anyway. "It's nothing, really. I'm fine." Memories of the images that had woken her pushed against her control, and she was glad for the darkness. "It's just a dream."

Hawkeye leant in closer, reaching out a hand across the table in a sign of support, he knew well enough not to touch her before she was ready. "Tell me?"

"There's nothing to tell." Her strength was clearly forced. "Sometimes I wake up in the night. Then I roll over and go back to sleep, because it's  _just a dream._ "

"'Just a dream' is what has me looking like this. Talk to me, Margaret. Things aren't so scary when you get them out in the light." Though he could only see part of her face, he knew she wasn't buying it, and to be honest, neither would he. This time he tried a different approach. "It'd be nice to hear I'm not the only lunatic in this asylum."

"You're not a lunatic." Her tone had softened now, though she still refused to face him.

"Is it always the same?" He spoke softly, his voice thick with understanding.

A comfortable silence surrounded them as Margaret took long breaths, waiting until she was confident she could answer him calmly. "Yes," her answer was barely more than a whisper, but as she continued, her volume grew. "It always starts out so well. I've just served dinner in a lovely dining room, and- and I'm about to sit down with my husband and two beautiful children." Hawkeye raised his eyebrows suggestively, but Margaret's face was still turned away. "And then the doorbell rings-" She took a shaky breath. "And when I open it-"

"Wounded," Hawkeye finished the sentence for her.

Though tears were beginning to well in her eyes, Margaret faced him, comforted by his knowledge of her fear. "And I turn back to my family… they won't start without me… but all I can hear is the screaming and I- I have to go…"

The only sound then was her uneven breathing as she fought to keep what little control she had left. After a moment, she tried to speak again, "I'm sorry… I don't usually-"

Then Hawkeye was standing behind her, a steadying hand on each of her shoulders, and she gave up her explanation. For several long minutes they stayed there, unmoving, until rhythm was restored and Margaret's tears had dried.

"Come on, Margaret," Hawkeye said as he took her hand to help her from her chair, "let me take you back to bed."

As he lead her back through the dark house and up the stairs, Hawkeye felt a familiar ache building in his chest. When he'd opened the door to her that afternoon she had been the picture of strength. She spoke reasonably, she wrote letters, she was well adjusted, and above all, she seemed to be functioning perfectly in a world he could no longer understand. He hadn't even stopped to think that things might not be going as well as they seemed.

He stood aside when they reached her door, holding it open for her to walk into the room still softly lit by the bedside lamp. Once inside, Margaret turned back to him, looking up at his ragged face. The shadows cast by the lamplight gave him a ghoulish look, and her personal troubles were replaced once again by a deep seated concern for his. Though he was standing strong now to comfort her, there was no denying that he was a very sick man, and she squeezed his hand as the sorrow of his situation washed over her.

Hawkeye stepped across the threshold, closing the space between them until his face was mere inches from hers. More than anything he wanted to help her, to protect her from a pain he knew all too well. But it had overcome him, and with no way to fight it in himself, he was utterly helpless to fight it in her. As the ache inside him grew, he stared down into her eyes and returned the short squeeze of his hand with one intended to last much longer.

Then he kissed her, in a way he had never kissed her before. There was no flaming passion, no overwhelming desire; he was not forceful or overpowering; his arms were not even wrapped around her. This kiss was soft, slow, filled with a desperate plea for emotion. Through it Hawkeye was trying simultaneously to save her, and to give himself up to her in a way that he could only hope would save him.

For a moment, Margaret was kissing him back, letting herself fall into the safety of his lips. But all too soon it became clear to her what he wanted, what he was trying to do, and she forced herself to take a step back. She kept a hold of his hand for a moment longer, doing her best not to dwell on the despair growing in his eyes. She squeezed it one more time before she let it go.

"Goodnight, Hawkeye," when she spoke her voice was filled with tenderness. "Thank you."

He stepped back through the doorway without a word, his mind still reeling from everything he had thought, everything he had felt, in the space of only a few seconds. Even after he had pulled the door closed he stood outside in the dark hallway, listening to the sound of her climbing into bed, turning off the light, and then, silence.


	7. We are Fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to rosiesbar for betaing :)

BJ sat alone in the lounge room, staring at the blank television screen, a glass of wine in his hand. Peg had been nothing but sweet to him all night, full of smiles and questions about his day. Their conversation at the hospital had ended abruptly when he'd been called back to see one of his patients, and neither of them had mentioned it since. Behind the smiles he could feel a distance forming between them, and when she had suggested retiring early, he had let her go alone.

Taking a sip of wine he savoured the taste. It wasn't expensive, but it was nice, and more than anything it tasted like home. But something was lacking. There was no fire as it slid down his throat, nothing to burn away the guilt and indecision that had plagued him for days. He hadn't thought coming home would be difficult for him, he was just going to slot back into his normal life, where nothing would have changed. But  _he_  had changed, and now he found himself walking through life in suburban California carrying the memories of who he had been for those two long years.

He wasn't ashamed of how he had acted in Korea, because under such incredible pressure he couldn't have expected to do any better. But with the gambling, the drinking, the pain that had permeated every inch of the camp, it wasn't a part of his life he wanted Peg to be involved in. He could quite happily live without ever really talking about the way things had been, and she would never have to know. But if he took her with him to see Hawkeye, with all that history so raw and exposed, she would be forced to face a harsh reality.

Continuing to drink, BJ let his thoughts wander back through long afternoons spent in the Swamp, when the fighting had slowed and post-op was almost empty. A smile teased the corners of his lips as he recalled absurd games of Double Cranko, horrible puns and conspiratorial giggles as he and Hawkeye hatched another plot against their tent mate. With all the rats, the food, the dysentery, all the suffering that came hand in hand with life in Korea, it was a strange place to long for, but long for it he did. There was more to the 4077 than the war. He finished his glass quickly in an attempt to numb the ache that was rising in his chest.

Eventually he stood, taking his glass to the kitchen to wash and put away, a habit that had been drilled into him by a less-than-sympathetic Peg. Apparently wanting to go to bed wasn't a good enough reason to simply leave a glass in the sink. He couldn't remember how long it had been since she'd said goodnight to him, and as he climbed the stairs with soft steps he hoped she was already asleep. After all he had just put himself through, the last thing he needed was her trying to sort things out between them. But, of course, she did have a habit of choosing the worst times to talk about these things, like just before he left for work, or in the hospital cafeteria.

No light shone from under the bedroom door as BJ walked through the dark hallway, and he cringed at the sound of the creaking hinges, not wanting to wake his wife. But, of course, as soon as he had stepped inside the room a bedside lamp was turned on, allowing him to see Peg slowly sitting up in the bed.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Peg shuffled the pillows behind her to make things more comfortable, while BJ just watched in disbelief. Only when she was sitting comfortably did Peg start. "Come and sit with me," she began calmly. "We need to talk about this."

BJ walked over to the bed and sat on his side, facing away from her. He took his time unlacing his shoes and pulling them from his feet. "Not now, Peg. Let's leave it for tonight." He did his best to make himself sound as tired as possible.

She reached over and put a hand on his shoulder, noticing the way his back was slouched, his head hanging. Though it was only slight, she could feel him lean back into her touch. "I don't want this to be hard, sweetie." She moved her hand back and forth between his shoulders. "I just want you to talk to me."

BJ took his time, enjoying the physical connection, before replying. "I shouldn't have said it like that… You know I love you, beautiful." His hands moved to the top button of his shirt and began to slowly work their way down again.

Kneeling behind him now, Peg gave his shoulders a soft squeeze in response. After a pause, she realised he wasn't going to continue. "Why don't you want me there?" The muscles beneath her hands tensed, and when she spoke again her voice was barely a whisper. "I just want to know why."

She helped her husband slide off his shirt, casually folding it, out of habit more than anything, before placing it on the bed beside them. She wasn't going to ask again, preferring to give him time to deal with his thoughts.

BJ stood up, stepping away from the bed as he undid his belt. When finally he answered her, it wasn't what she wanted to hear. "There are a lot of reasons." Even without looking he could tell Peg was disappointed. Still with his back to her he stepped out his pants, giving up on trying to find the right words.

In just his underwear now, he turned to face his wife for the first time since he had entered the room. "I never wanted to leave you, Peg. I spent every day over there wishing I could be with you again. And now I'm home, and we're a family, I'm where I'm supposed to be." Unsure if he was making sense, he took a breath before continuing. "It's like they're calling me up again, trying to send me back. And part of me wants to go, because those people… they're my family too, and I've got to look after them."

Peg was looking up at him in confusion, trying all she could to understand what he was telling her. With tears in his eyes, BJ struggled for words once again. "Crabapple Cove is the new Korea, and I'll go if I have to, but I will do everything -  _everything_  - I can, to make sure you don't have to go with me."

"Sweetheart," Peg reached up and took his hand, using it to guide him back onto the bed beside her. "Crabapple Cove is not Korea. Whatever Hawkeye's going through, seeing him won't take you back there."

For a while they sat together in silence, until BJ lay down against her, his head resting against her chest as she held him. Suddenly he felt overwhelmingly tired, and all he wanted was to stop, to fall asleep in the safety of her small arms.

"Whatever happens," she whispered, "one thing will be different. I'll be there, and I'll look after you." She leant down until her lips were hovering just above his ear, "That's my job, too." She placed a soft kiss on his cheek and held him tighter. In a minute, she would have to let him go so they could go to bed, but once they were warm beneath the covers she would find him again, and let him melt into her for the rest of the night.

* * *

At 0500 hours Margaret opened her eyes. After a life in the military barely a day went by that she wasn't awake at dawn. For a while she lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling as she recalled the events of the night. Her memories were clouded by sleep, and the finer details of the early morning conversation evaded her. Quickly she played through what little had passed between her and Hawkeye in the dark yard, until she saw him once again leading her up the stairs. Then the images were clear.

A weight fell on her chest as she saw again those desperate eyes, and felt again all he had tried to tell her through his kiss. Their relationship was a strange one, like no relationship Margaret had ever had before, and because of that she knew exactly what he had meant when he had kissed her. There was a large part of her that was confident she had done the right thing by stepping away, but the part of her struggling under the weight of emotion wished she had let him stay with her. It wouldn't have helped him in the long term, but at least for that short time she could have freed him from his fear.

None of that mattered now though, and she pushed the regret to the back of her mind as she climbed out of bed. It didn't take her long to prepare for the day ahead, and within minutes she was dressed and standing at the closed door. She gripped the handle tightly for a moment, before turning it and swinging the door open to face the hallway. Barely one step out the door and she was on her knees, a nurse again.

Hawkeye was sitting on the floor opposite her bedroom door, leaning against the wall. He was still in his pajamas, though he had taken his robe off and was using it as a blanket across his legs. Sweat caused his hair to cling to his forehead, and his face was drawn in a clear expression of pain.

Forcing one corner of his mouth into something resembling a smile, Hawkeye greeted her, "I knew you'd be back. Who could resist this?" He lifted one trembling hand and gestured to himself.

Margaret couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of his comment, he looked absolutely awful. "Don't tell me you've been sitting here all night," she asked, attempting to distract him somewhat as she picked up his hand and searched for his pulse.

He let her keep it, dropping his smile as together they felt the racing of his heart. "Of course not! I was standing up for a while, but then I got hot, so I took off my robe. Then I got cold, and my robe was on the floor, so I sat down. Then I figured while I was down here I might as well have a lie down, but that just made the nausea worse so I sat back up. It was up-down, up-down all night. You've gotta be quick to keep up with me."

By the time he'd finished his rambling explanation, Margaret was watching him with a firm look in her eyes, a warning that she was taking the situation very seriously. "How long has it been since your last drink?"

"Since you put me out," Hawkeye didn't bother to hide what he was going through, he knew what was happening to him as well as she did. If he'd just gone back down stairs those few hours ago, he could be comfortably drunk instead of sitting in the hallway feeling like death. The thought had certainly crossed his mind more than once during his vigil, but for reasons he couldn't explain he hadn't been able to pick himself up and leave her doorway.

Margaret frowned, counting quickly in her head. "That's a bit over 12 hours. Good. You should be through the worst of it before I have to go." She stood up, offering her hand to help him do the same.

He looked up at her with wide eyes, still in awe of her blunt efficiency. "Oh no," he shook his head, regretting it instantly as the ache in his temples worsened, "we are  _not_ doing this now."

"I think you'll find we are." Her offer of help ignored, Margaret reached down and took his arm to pull him onto his feet.

"Look, Margaret, I appreciate the thought, but I'm the doctor here," he shook himself free of her grip losing his balance as he did and falling back to the floor. "I can take care of myself."

"Is that what you call this? Taking care of yourself?"

Hawkeye's stomach didn't give him a chance to reply, and he was forced to ignore the pains in the rest of his body as he pushed himself up from the ground and ran down the hall.


	8. The Battle Raged Higher

Comforted by the knowledge that help had finally arrived, Daniel had slept soundly for the first night in weeks. He woke to the sound of voices in the hall, and couldn't help but feel disappointed that his rest was over. Although it was still early he sat up on the edge of the bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes with one hand. Whatever was going on outside, he knew he should be there; Hawkeye was his son, this was his responsibility. He pulled on his faded robe on the way to the door, noting sadly that the conversation outside was quickly taking on the tone of an argument.

He opened his bedroom door just in time to see Hawkeye stumble past on his way to the bathroom. For a moment Daniel was stunned, and he looked back down the hall for an explanation. There was Margaret, picking up the red robe from the floor. Daniel walked over to her, and she gave him a weak smile when she saw him.

"12 hours," she said by way of explanation, as they had talked about the possibility of Hawkeye's withdrawal before she'd arrived. "He'll be alright, don't worry."

As a doctor he knew she was right, but as a father he couldn't change what he was feeling. Still he returned her smile easily, keeping up his jovial facade as only a Pierce could. "Thank you," he reached out and took the robe from her, indicating with a nod of his head for her to go downstairs. "Help yourself to breakfast. We'll be down soon I should think, but there's no need to wait."

Hawkeye had left the bathroom door open in his hurry, and when his father reached him he was kneeling on the tiles, retching. Daniel didn't speak as he pulled over the chair from next to the bath, a leftover from the days of living with an invalid. He sat down, lying the robe across his knees, and watched the dark head hovering above the toilet bowl.

The short silence was broken then by desperate coughs. When eventually it quieted again, Daniel was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the floor. "Listen… Hawk…" This sort of conversation was becoming all too frequent, but he still couldn't find a way to start. "I wish your mother was here," he muttered, almost to himself. Jo would have found the wounds, she would have known what to do.

Pausing, he turned back to the mess of black hair, and found himself confronted by wide, bloodshot eyes. "I'm so sorry, Ben."

"Don't," Hawkeye broke in. "We've both had worse hangovers than this. Remember your 50th? I sure don't," his voice was small and slightly ragged, but still he managed to smile.

Daniel smiled back, though he felt no better than when he had entered the room. "C'mon, I'll buy you breakfast," he said, standing and offering a hand to his son. Hawkeye took it without hesitation, doing his best to ignore the buzz of anxiety growing alongside his nausea as they walked together down the stairs.

When they reached the kitchen Margaret was sitting at the table, a bowl of oatmeal steaming in front of her. Hawkeye fell into his usual chair just inside the door, letting his robe fall open as he rested his head against the wall, his eyes closed in an attempt to quiet the pounding in his head.

"The pot's on the stove if you'd like me to get you a bowl," Margaret offered as Daniel passed her.

"That's alright, I've got it," he replied, gratitude clear in his tone. "Coffee?"

"Please."

Hawkeye opened his eyes a fraction at the sound of dishes being placed on the table in time to see Daniel putting two bottles of pills next to his glass of water. "What's this?" One was clearly aspirin, but Hawkeye picked the other up, feigning delight as he read the label, "Ah, phenobarbital! Breakfast of kings! I'd have preferred coffee, but you know what they say - never look a gift horse in the pharmaceuticals."

The jokes may not have stopped, but they certainly weren't getting the reactions they used to. His voice was strained, his expressions forced, and Margaret couldn't help but turn away, overcome by the intense sadness of it all.

Daniel pulled out his Colonel Potter impression for the second time in as many days, "Take two of each, and eat something." Taking his own seat he ate a spoonful of oatmeal, eyes fixed on the bowl. "You're going to need to roll up your sleeve at some point, too."

The silence that followed was far from comfortable, and Hawkeye joined the others in an exaggerated preoccupation with his food. His stomach was starting to settle, but he still had no interest in eating. After two forced mouthfuls served only to make him feel worse, he gave up entirely, settling for vacantly playing with his spoon.

Time seemed to pass incredibly slowly, and eventually Daniel took his and Margaret's empty bowls from the table and mentioned that he should probably be leaving for work soon. Nobody commented on the fact that the surgery wouldn't be open for a couple of hours yet. On his way out of the room, he stopped behind his son and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. Hawkeye froze.

"Just give me a ring if you need anything," he said to Margaret by way of goodbye, before heading upstairs to change.

The movement relaxed the oppressive tension of the room somewhat, and Margaret turned to Hawkeye, noting his bowl was still full. "You need to eat something."

"I'm not hungry." He kept his eyes down, not wanting to look at her.

"Just pretend it's World War Two surplus. Nobody was ever hungry when they saw that stuff, but we managed to eat it anyway." She pushed her chair out from the table and went to the fridge. "Don't forget to take those, too," she added, looking over the top of the fridge door and nodding to the little brown bottles on the table.

Given the choice between the food and the pills, Hawkeye opted for the pills; at least if he kept them down they might actually do him some good. He took them one at a time, pulling a different face in disgust after each one. Then Margaret was beside him again, holding up a full syringe.

"How bad do I have to be to get an IV?" He asked as he pulled off one side of his robe and rolled up his shirt sleeve.

"Oh, don't be such a baby. If we could trust you to actually eat something you wouldn't need this," Margaret scolded as she took his arm, sliding the needle in with a skill only nurses possess. "It's only vitamin B after all."

Hawkeye pulled his arm away as soon as she'd finished and put his sleeve back down protectively: he hated injections. He forced himself to have another spoonful of oatmeal, but the pain that was assaulting him from all directions threatened to overwhelm him and he couldn't get any further. Margaret almost wanted to laugh at the way he was sulking, reminding her of a disgruntled teenager, but his reasons were too legitimate. Instead she took pity on him and ushered him into the living room to rest on the couch.

After an almost choreographed routine of fussing over and sniping at one another the pair were finally settled, Hawkeye lying on the couch, a damp washcloth over his eyes and his feet up, and Margaret in Daniel's chair with the beginnings of a letter on her lap. For a time the only sound was pen on paper while they waited for the painkillers to take full effect. When Hawkeye did feel the pain in his head start to recede, though, it offered him no relief. Without the constant ache to focus his attention his other symptoms came to the foreground, and the racing of his heart seemed almost to be shaking his entire body. The feeling was uncanny, and the more he thought about it the more his nausea worsened, laced with the seeds of anxiety. He just wanted to stop, to curl in on himself and feel nothing, but there was only one way he knew to do that, and it was the one way he was not allowed.

"Which of your father's jobs did you end up taking then?" He asked, hoping for distraction.

"None of them, actually." Margaret put down her pen and shifted in her chair so she could better see his face.

"What are you doing?" He followed up quickly. "When you're not wasting your time trying to look after me, that is."

"I'm in Texas, at the hospital at Fort Sam Houston. You probably trained there." She could see the expression on his face shift slightly as she talked, so she kept going, "It's the army's main teaching hospital. I remember before I shipped out for the 4077th, how I thought a combat hospital was going to be. I'd been an army nurse for 10 years, I knew that war was no walk in the park, but even I wasn't ready for...  _that_. The number of girls who should never have been sent to that camp… I'm not letting that happen next time. So I decided to teach for a little while, until I find something better. Europe would've been fun, but it's nice to be home." She smiled to herself at just the thought, grateful to be back where, even in strange places, things were familiar.

"Have you opened  _any_ of your mail?" She asked, knowing she had told him her news in letters which he had apparently never read.

"I thought I'd wait for the movie; or in your case, the live show."

Margaret went back to her writing, thinking it better to wait until he was feeling a little better to have this conversation. But she could only hold her tongue for so long, and after having barely written a paragraph, she put her pen down.

"Just what exactly are you trying to pull?" Though she tried to keep her words soft, the question came almost as an accusation.

"Nothing," Hawkeye answered simply. He was stunned by her directness, having been lulled into a false sense of security by the pause in their conversation. The medication was taking over with every passing second and already he was feeling significantly better, though a lethargy had begun to seep into his limbs. He took the washcloth off and looked quizzically at Margaret, as though the question had come entirely out of the blue.

"You won't answer the phone, you won't talk to your dad, you won't even open your mail! Avoiding people isn't what you do, Hawkeye, so why are you doing it now?"

"Since this is what I'm doing, I'd say it is what I do. But if it isn't what you want me to do, I can certainly think of some alternatives," he gave her a devilish smile, though there was no accompanying spark in his bloodshot eyes.

"Don't try to change the subject! You're not getting out of this by making me yell at you." She rested on the arm of her chair and leant closer to him, before continuing more calmly, "Tell me why you're doing this. What made you think hiding from your friends was a good idea?"

Hawkeye shrugged, unsure of how else he could avoid giving her an answer. Her pale blue eyes continued to watch him, unrelenting in their concern. He felt a pressure building in his chest, a feeling almost like guilt about the way he was clearly making her feel, and with such a direct question, he knew there was only one way he could make it go away.

Keeping his eyes fixed on hers, the smile having faded from his face, he gave her the only answer he had left: the truth. "It worked for Trapper."

Despite the shyness in the way he had spoken, Margaret was still skeptical. "How could you possibly know that?" After Trapper's sudden departure, much of the camp had waited for him to send news of home, and Hawkeye in particular had written him constantly. Letters to him seemed to just disappear, being neither responded to or returned, and the few calls Radar had patched through rang out into silence. "I thought you gave up writing to him a long time ago."

"Yeah, well, maybe I started up again." Hawkeye turned his gaze to the floor, feeling the sting of tears building behind his eyes. These days it seemed he would cry over nothing, or else not cry at all for days though he had good reason to. He flashed his eyes up to Margaret again for second, forcing his mouth into what was supposed to be a smile. "Don't be jealous, Margaret. When you fall off the face of the earth for two years I'll start writing to you again too."

Though she still couldn't believe that Trapper had finally resurfaced after all this time, it was clear Hawkeye was struggling, and she didn't want to make things any harder for him than he was for himself. "He actually wrote you back this time?" Her voice may have been soft, but her words were not. "To tell you what? To replace all your friends with a bottle of gin and an olive?"

Hawkeye fidgeted awkwardly, feeling suddenly very small under her steel gaze. "He might as well have," he mumbled in reply.

"What did he say then?"

"Return to sender: not known at this address."

"Well, that explains a bit…"

"No," Hawkeye interrupted sharply, "it was his handwriting. He sent it back."

Margaret could only imagine how painful that must have been for him, after all that time waiting for something,  _anything_. She couldn't think of any words that might comfort him.

"He wouldn't have done it if it wasn't working," Hawkeye continued stubbornly, sounding more like a child with every word.

Margaret frowned. "You can't honestly tell me that you think it was working for you?"

"I keep telling you, I'm  _fine_. At least I was until you got here," the tears were gone, and Hawkeye could feel fire building in his throat as he looked back at her. "What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be off harassing some poor little student nurse?"

"I'm here because you need me here, and I'm going to help you through this whether you like it or not!" When it came to fire, Margaret knew exactly what she was doing.

"And what about Trapper? Where the hell were we when he needed us, huh?" His tears were threatening to return in floods, but Hawkeye didn't care anymore.

"You know exactly where we were," Margaret's answer came quietly, though it was no less forceful, and Hawkeye could say nothing in reply as he finally gave in and let sobs rip through him. He should have been there.


	9. Just One World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of M*A*S*H fanart day, I give you Chapter 9! I'm sorry I suck at updating regularly, but I promise you guys, no matter how long it takes between updates, I will never abandon this fic. I'm in it 'til the end. Many thanks to rosiesbar (hawkeye-piercentyre on tumblr) for being the most wonderful beta a girl could have, and to tumblr's captain-transvestite for helping me out with the history :)
> 
> 22 veterans commit suicide every day in the US. That's 2,772 deaths since I first posted this fic. If you can, please be generous and support your veterans, wherever you live.

Hawkeye quickly turned to face the back of the couch, shielding his face with his arm as he cried. Anger, sadness and guilt swelled inside of him, intertwining in a way that made each one more painful than he could ever have imagined. More than anything he wished he could drown them in something far stronger than tears. Margaret had moved to kneel on the floor beside him, knowing there was little she could do at that moment but be there, and though he could not tell her then, he was grateful for her presence.

Eventually his sobs fell into gasping breaths, eerily quiet now as he struggled for air. It was then that Margaret reached out to him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder and encouraging him to roll onto his back and face her. As panic rose inside of him Hawkeye turned into her touch, his face a mess of emotion. Though she had seen him cry more than once before, Margaret was unprepared for what faced her; his bloodshot eyes were red and swollen, his cheeks stained with the passage of tears, and his mouth gaped open in a silent scream.

"Breathe out," though it shook slightly as she spoke, Margaret's voice came to Hawkeye as a point of clarity within the chaos, and she repeated herself in a steady rhythm as he fought to comply. "It's alright. Just breathe out."

Eventually he managed to let the air he had been searching for so desperately escape his lungs, and soon he was able to regulate his breathing to the gentle movements of Margaret's hand on his arm. All that emotion was still bubbling inside of him, burning like acid into his heart, and though he seemed to have calmed somewhat, a shadow of pain hung over his face.

Margaret let the silence linger for several long seconds before she spoke again, grateful that she would have control of the conversation for once. "Trapper's okay, Hawkeye. He got through life just fine before he met any of us. I'm sure his family is looking after him. Now you just need to start letting yours look after you." There was a softness in her voice, a familiar lilt that for a moment, Hawkeye couldn't place. It was a tone he had heard only a few times before, one she reserved for the worst of her patients: those in the most pain, and those waiting to die.

"I know you're afraid, we're all afraid. There are things we've lived through that no one else will ever understand. But we went through it together, remember?" As Margaret spoke, she could hear Hawkeye's breaths coming more evenly, and she stilled her hand on his arm. "You don't have to forget for it to get better, you just have to deal with what you remember. Why don't you tell me what you remember?"

After minutes of silence just listening to himself breathe, Hawkeye felt a strange sense of calm come over him. He opened his eyes, though he hadn't realised he'd ever closed them, and stared blankly at the ceiling. When he answered her, his voice was flat and emotionless. "What I remember? How about the face of every kid that didn't make it home. Every body that went out of that camp in a truck."

"That wasn-"

"Don't tell me we weren't responsible," he plowed on, tone unchanging. "We stood out there in triage and picked who lived and who died. He's first, he's second, that guy'll have to wait even though another hour could well kill him, don't even bother with that one, he might as well already be dead. Who the hell were we to play God?" The lack of emotion as he posed the question was eerie.

"Every one of those boys would have died if we hadn't been there. Think about how many lives you saved." Margaret repeated the lines she had spoken countless times to herself, though after so long they now seemed somehow unreal.

"Yeah, ' _saved'_. How many kids did we send back to the front just to have them wind up dead?"

"None of that was our fault! None of it. Death is a part of life, Hawkeye, and there's nothing you can do to change that. No matter how hard you work, or how much you care, you'll never be able to save everyone!" Though she fought to control it, Margaret found her voice slowly rising.

"Why the hell not?!" Hawkeye sat up furiously, swinging his legs down from the arm of the couch in one swift movement and staring down at the still kneeling Margaret. "I'm a doctor for Christ's sake, I know how to fix them, so why the hell can't I?!"

Before she could stop herself she was yelling back at him, "Because not everyone can be fixed!"

* * *

The waiting room at the Crabapple Cove clinic was never empty, a steady stream of patients passing through every day. With a population of barely 4,000 in the town, Daniel had his side of the market cornered. He knew even his most infrequent patients intimately, having delivered most of them himself, and he was prone to falling desperately behind schedule chatting with them all. Between endless discussions of fishing and golf, and tales of children and grandchildren who had ventured interstate, the conversation would inevitably turn to him. When at first Hawkeye had returned Daniel had faced a standard list of questions, how was he, when would they be seeing him, nothing out of the ordinary. But after weeks had passed with little sign of his son in the town the questions had turned into politely masked judgements, or been forgotten entirely.

When Dotty Armstrong had walked into his office, hand in hand with her little girl of no more than five, Daniel had been all smiles. She was only a few years younger than Hawkeye, and he had known her well as a child, but since marrying she had moved in circles beyond that of the simple doctor.

"How are you Dotty? Having a nice time?" Daniel asked, gesturing to young Nancy as he spoke. His smile grew even more as he noticed the way she swung her little legs playfully on the tall chair.

"Dorothy, please," she corrected, her words as neat and well chosen as her dress. "Things are going very well for us, thank you, aren't they Nancy?" Her daughter simply giggled in response. "Children aren't nearly so difficult as some people make them out to be, if they're raised properly. Don't you think, Dr Pierce?"

Somehow Daniel managed to keep himself from laughing, but only just. "Oh, I don't know. Children have a habit of surprising you, I've found, when you least expect it."

"Yes, I suppose so," for less than a second a shadow of thought could be seen in her face, though her tone remained unchanged. "It must be nice for you to have Haw- _Benjamin_ at home again. Is he planning to return to Boston? Or another hospital, perhaps?"

"No, no, not for the moment," though his smile remained intact, there was a slight shift in Daniel's tone; an almost fatherly note of warning. "We're both content for him to be at home for the time being, I think."

"Of course, hospital work isn't for everyone. Perhaps he would be better suited to a…  _less demanding_ environment."

Daniel turned his attention abruptly to Nancy, "Now, what seems to be the matter today, young lady?"

When Mary Clemons had been helped into his office by Nurse Evelyn, Daniel had stood to take her arm and her cane, not leaving her side until she was comfortable in her chair. He saw her quite regularly, as with many of his older patients, but in this instance it had been almost two weeks since her last visit.

"How are you feeling this morning Mrs Clemons?" Daniel asked, sorting through her papers on his desk to find the most recent.

"Terrible," she answered bluntly, her nasal voice just a fraction louder than it needed to be.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Daniel feigned concern, she was always feeling terrible.

Mary didn't give him a chance to continue, preferring to take the lead in the conversation, "This is the first time I've been out since Thursday, you know! All weekend I've been stuck in that house, nothing to do but play canasta with Jim! There's nothing worse than playing a nice card game with someone who can't tell a club from a spade! But of course Joey won't take me out, too much effort to take his own mother for a drive into town now that he lives all of five streets away!"

"I'm sure he's doing his best, Mrs Clemons, he does have a lot of mouths to feed," Daniel interjected, recalling the last time he had seen Joe, looking completely exhausted with five squealing children pulling at his sleeves.

The old woman ignored him, continuing her tirade, "After all we did for him growing up, going without so he could have, you'd think he'd look after us properly in our old age! Ungrateful, children, they're all ungrateful. Take my word for it Danny, that boy of yours won't be much better! He's already taking advantage, and of course you're letting him. Terrible shame for that boy to grow up without a mother, she'd have set him straight." She paused for a moment, shaking her head at the thought of such waste. "It's downright un-American to let him make such a fuss about this Korea business. Why, when my Jim came back from the great war he was straight back to work without so much as a days rest! I'd send him off, if I were you, let him see what it's like for them that's really gone in the head, then he'll be back to his normal self, you'll see."

Daniel, who had initially been listening only out of politeness, was by this point ready to end the appointment without another word. But, being the man that he was, he chose instead to take a deep breath, and interrupt her speech, which had returned to the topic of her own son's failings.

"What exactly can I help you with today, Mrs Clemons?"

When George Preston had limped through the door, without any assistance, as usual, Daniel had stood to shake his hand. George was a quiet man, always to the point, the sort of patient many a doctor would dream of. He didn't bother to engage in small talk, preferring simply to take his diagnosis and be on his way. Only, on this particular day, just before he had reached the door to leave, he had stopped.

There was a moment of silence before he spoke, in which Daniel could clearly see him turning the words over in his mind. When he did speak, his voice was low and gruff, more so than it had been minutes before, "Hawkeye did his duty, that's all. Tell him not to expect anyone to thank him for it."

Before Daniel could find a reply, George was gone.

So it was that when Daniel reached his office that early Tuesday morning he didn't feel any more at ease than he had in the chaos of his home. With at just over an hour to wait until the surgery opened, he left the door locked behind him and sat at his desk. For a second he considered doing some paperwork, but as he struggled to read the print in front of him he realised he hadn't bothered to turn on the lights on his way in. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and sighed, the thinly veiled judgement of the town swirling in the darkness behind his eyes; it was going to be another long day.


End file.
